


Bordertown

by Nova (Lobelia321)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Nova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind blows in sand from the desert, and the rain, when it falls, dries dusty on the windowpanes and the roofs of cars.  It all comes down to this: you could go on, or you could go back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bordertown

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: This fic is written by Nova, not by me (Lobelia321). I (Lobelia) merely uploaded. This story is no longer available anywhere else on-line. Nova gave me permission to post it to A03. Re-read and enjoy!

The wind blows in sand from the desert, and the rain, when it falls, dries dusty on the windowpanes and the roofs of cars. There are no boats on the river, no fishermen, no birds, only an assortment of crap floating on the water, dead dogs smeared with engine oil, cans and bottles and plastic drums all bobbing along in a foamy greenish soup.

At some point, this must have seemed like a good idea, you, and him, and a rental car with local plates - safer, he tells you; he's been here before. That particular point, you feel, has long since been passed, but then, this whole town is a monument to transience and change. People don't come here to stay, they come here in the hope of discarding their old lives like worn-out tyres at the side of the road before zooming off again, speeding on shiny-wheeled dreams towards some half-imagined sunset, although the faded faces glimpsed on every street corner suggest to you that only a very few will actually get very far. It all comes down to this: you could go on, or you could go back.

***

When you turn on the taps in the guesthouse room, rusty water piddles into the bowl. The two of you drive to a supermarket a few blocks away and load up the trunk of the car with boxes of bottles, blue plastic and brown glass. "Agua sin gas" is still just about the only Spanish you know, along with "gracias" and "cerveza"; not that it matters here, anyway. You pay the bill in US dollars.

He starts the car; he likes to drive, and you don't, or at least not over here in unfamiliar towns, where the whole wrong-side-of-the-road thing bothers you more and every junction brings on a flutter of minor panic. You're winding down the window when you notice the aerial lying like a snapped twig across the bonnet. You reach out to twist it off, trying not to burn your hand on the sun-hot metal, and pull it into the car.

He glances over at the broken length of plastic lying on your lap. "Jesus. We were only gone ten minutes."

You don't reply. Instead, you turn on the radio and wind the dials first one way, then the other, but all you can hear is the gargle of static, a fizz and whoosh like waves breaking against the shore of some faraway metallic sea.

***

"Like a woman's hand," he intones in another man’s voice, "you should hold your sword like a woman's hand," and the recollection of this phrase from some other, older life makes you shiver, despite the slow crawl of sweat beneath your collar. It's very late, or very early, perhaps; you're back in your room at the guesthouse, feinting half-heartedly at your own shadow on the wall with the broken car aerial. 

"I was supposed to be the archer, remember?" you say. It seems a long time ago. 

"Bullshit." He's lying on his bed, swigging beer from the bottle. "You did just as much swordfighting as the rest of us."

"Well then, maybe I didn't listen quite as hard." The aerial zips and whines through the air as you slash at your insubstantial foe, lunge, parry, riposte; he watches you critically.

"Look," he says at last, setting his bottle down on the floor, "like this," and now he's standing up and you expect him to reach out and snatch the wand of plastic away from you, but he doesn't. His hand closes over your own.

***

You breakfast in a streetside cafe under a leafless tree strung with a frayed loop of pink chilli-pepper bulbs; coffee and sweet bread dusted with sugar. The coffee is black and gritty, all but undrinkable. He assures you that it does get better, that it will get better, the further on you go.


End file.
